Thankfully this tempest blew itself out not long before the ship reached Hilo. He emerged from his cabin, shaken and wobbly, as they drew into the harbor. The offshore wind that greeted him seemed somewhat cooler, but it did nothing to improve either his physical or mental well-being. He leaned on the railing, staring at the distantly looming presence of one of the island’s volcanoes, Mauna Loa, and the small port settlement that stretched out beyond a long expanse of palm-fringed beach.
The wharf at which the steamer docked looked new, as did some of the rows of warehouses along the waterfront. Hilo’s buildings and houses were a mixture of old and new, some made of stone, more of unpainted timber, more still of woven palm fronds with grass roofs. Quincannon regarded the town with a dully covetous eye. It was not a particularly inviting place, but it had one attribute that made him yearn to be disembarking here: its buildings sprawled across solid ground.
The Lehua’s layover was short. Most of the passengers disembarked here; a handful took their place. Cargo was quickly off-loaded and other cargo loaded on, and they were soon under way again. The ocean on the leeward side of the island was considerably calmer, permitting Quincannon to remain on deck throughout the voyage around to the Kona Coast. The brisk sea wind was refreshing; his tortured insides eased. When the ship finally drew in to Kailua, he felt more or less human again.
The village was a straggling affair of thirty or forty buildings that hugged the shore beside a protected bay. The dominant structure, he overheard one of the stewards say, was a royal palace built by Prince Kuakini, brother of Kamehameha’s queen. To his jaundiced eye, it looked less like a palace than a square, three-storied New England house onto which had been grafted a long porch and a second-story balcony with ornate railings.
Quincannon noted all of this abstractedly as he off-loaded himself and his borrowed carpetbag, first onto the slender dock and then onto blessed terra firma. Local color, even the exotic variety he had encountered so far in these islands, was of little interest to him at the best of times. And these were not the best of times.
He trudged to a small, single-story hotel that the steward had pointed out to him. The weather was almost as hot and sultry here as it had been in Honolulu, the sky heavy with more of the black-edged cumulus clouds. There was sure to be another blasted storm by nightfall.
The hotel accommodations were Spartan but adequate. The owner, Abner Bannister, a rail-thin Englishman with a bristling salt-and-pepper mustache, proudly proclaimed himself the descendant of one of the missionaries who had helped Prince Kuakini design his royal home in 1837. Quincannon allowed as how he was there on a business matter concerning Stanton Millay and an acquaintance, James Varner, who had arrived together on Sunday. Had Bannister seen them? No, the innkeeper said. Millay preferred other lodgings when he spent a night in Kailua.
“How far is the Millay ranch from here?” Quincannon asked.
“About thirty miles, as the crow flies.”
“How would he and Varner have traveled to it? By boat?”
The hotel owner shook his head. “The only boats in Kailua are fisherman’s outriggers. There are no passenger craft to Puako, the nearest village on that section of the coast. Of course, if one of the cattle ships from Hilo was due in, it could take you to Kawaihae farther north. They anchor offshore there when ranchers drive their herds to the beach for shipment to the other islands. The cattle are lashed to the outside of small boats and ferried out to the main ship where they’re belly-hoisted aboard—”
“The two of them went by road, then,” Quincannon interrupted. “There is one to that section of the coast, I trust?”
“Oh, yes. The up-island road goes all the way to Waimea.”
“Where can I rent a horse?”
Bannister laughed. “There are no horses for hire in Kailua. The lios in this district have either been domesticated for use on the ranches and plantations, or roam wild.”
“How do people make the trip, then? How did Millay and Varner?”
“By horse and buggy, in their case. Millay boards his equipage at the livery here when he’s away. Your method of transportation will have to be by rented wagon and Kona nightingale.”
“What, pray tell, is a Kona nightingale?”
“A native breed of donkey. Durable and sturdy creatures, for the most part quite dependable when domesticated.”
Donkeys! No boats, no horses, naught but wagons and asses! What other handicaps did these island gardens of delight hold in store?
Bannister sent one of his Hawaiian employees to make transportation arrangements for the following morning, saving Quincannon at least that disagreeable task. After a roast pork supper, palatable save for that strange paste-like inedible side dish called poi, the two men retired to the hotel parlor to smoke their pipes. If there were any other guests, they had not made themselves visible in the dining room or elsewhere on the premises.
Bannister was the loquacious type, and again willing to share confidences. He was also, it developed, something of a local historian. Quincannon asked him about the Millay ranch, stating that he knew relatively little of its operation or of the family; his business with the Millays and James Varner, he said, was of a highly sensitive and private nature. The hotel owner accepted this without question.
“It’s one of the larger ranches in South Kohala,” Bannister said. “Several thousand acres extending from the lower slopes of Mauna Kea to the sea. And several thousand head of cattle. Grace and Stanton’s father, Gregory Millay, was deeded the land by Queen Kapi‘olani at the behest of John Parker, the owner of the largest cattle ranch on the island. Parker was an intimate of King Kamehameha and the first to domesticate the wild herds of longhorns brought to the island in 1793, and Gregory Millay was one of his employees. Hawaiian longhorns are small and wiry, you know, not like the Texas variety...”
Quincannon cut this short by saying, “I understand Grace Millay is the guiding force behind the ranch today.”
“Ever since Gregory’s death eight years ago, yes. With the help of a dozen or so paniolos and her luna, Sam Opaka.”
“Paniolos? Luna?”
“Paniolos are Hawaiian cowboys. ‘Luna’ means ‘ranch foreman.’ Rough sort, Opaka, half-caste. There are rumors, but I for one pay no attention to them. Gossip is a tool of the devil.”
Yes, and of a detective on the hunt. “Rumors about Grace Millay and Sam Opaka, do you mean?”
“Sadly, yes. Neither is married and they are often seen together, and so the inevitable conclusions are drawn. Grace Millay is a handsome woman. But, ah, willful and tenacious, if you know what I mean.”
“That I do.” If any man understood forceful women, it was John Frederick Quincannon. The description was one he himself might have used to describe Sabina, though in a complimentary fashion in her case. “And her brother? He has no objection to her running the ranch?”
“Evidently not. He’s younger than she by some five years, just twenty-seven, and prefers the buying and selling end of the cattle business. Or so he claims.”
“I’ve been told he often travels to Honolulu, and occasionally to San Francisco, and is known as quite a sport.”
“Yes, well, he has that reputation.” Bannister smiled wryly. “Gregory Millay had reason to be proud of at least one of his offspring.”